Page 30 of The Comeback Summer

I hold back a bitter laugh.Hehad a rough time? He wasn’t the one left behind with an apartment he couldn’t afford and a life he didn’t know how to live on his own.

“I hadn’t realized how much I relied on you,” he continues as we turn off the boardwalk and reenter the zoo proper. “I couldn’t keep up. My adviser finally pulled me aside and said that she knew I was smart enough to do the work, so there must be something else going on. She suggested I get evaluated.”

Josh was always smart and creative, but also scattered and distractible. And yes, I did help him stay organized, but it never bothered me, because he kept me grounded, stopped me from disappearing into my own anxious mind. I’d manage his schedule and remind him to turn in assignments; he’d order for me at restaurants or tell the waiter if something was wrong with my meal. Back then, it felt like a good partnership.

We pass the zebras and I slow down, wanting to be able to talk without losing my breath.

“So, are you on medication?” I ask.

“Would that make you think less of me?” he says in a wry tone.

“Of course not. No judgment whatsoever. Sorry if it felt that way.”

He sighs. “No, I know. It’s just, there’s still a stigma about ADHD, especially in adults. Some people think it’s an excuse to get drugs, or that I just need to ‘work harder and stay focused,’ like my dad always said.”

I remember his dad saying that, and how much it hurt Josh.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, meaning it. Then I share something with him that only Libby knows. “I take medication for anxiety and depression. I’ve been on it for four and a half years.”

He goes quiet. I imagine him doing the math in his head. That was not long after he broke up with me.

“Does it help?” he asks, giving me a quick glance before looking away again.

“Overall, yes,” I say. “I still have anxious thoughts running through my head, but the medication... it turns the volume down. And therapy helped me recognize that those thoughts aren’t true.”

“Example?”

He’s listening with the full force of his attention, and because of that, my words keep spilling out. “Well. I sometimes think everyone hates me and they’re just pretending to like me. Or—or that the people I love are going to leave when I need them most.” My eyes are stinging, and I blink.

I can tell Josh is looking at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. This already feels way too vulnerable. My dad left; Josh left. Obviously, it still hurts.

“Enough about me,” I say, picking up my pace. “Is your medication helpful?”

He nods. “It flips a switch in my brain—instead of taking all my energy to do one simple task, avoiding it until the last minute, I can just... do it. At first, I couldn’t believe this was how regular people got to feelallthe time.”

“I felt that way, too, when my meds started working. Like, is this what normal feels like?” I steer us past a couple pushing a stroller. “I mean, I’m not cured—”

“Me neither,” he says, flashing me a smirk that makes me feel briefly off-balance. “But I’ve learned ways to compensate—like crocheting in meetings. When my hands are busy, my brain can focus.”

I stifle a laugh. “Grandma Josh, sitting in a serious academic meeting, crochet needle and yarn in hand.”

“Next I want to learn to knit,” he says, dead serious.

“Will you go by Nana? Grammy?”

“I prefer Meemaw, actually.” Another smirky grin. “I also have a whole system of checklists and alarms in my phone. I set three reminders to meet you the other day for coffee. That’s why I was there early. Plus, I mean, Iwantedto see you.”

His words make me glow inside. But I don’t allow myself to examine that feeling too closely. We’re rounding the corner back to where we started and slow to a walk, both of us breathing hard.

Josh’s hair is curling around the edges, his skin glistening. The sight thrusts me back in time: freshman year in college, running together around campus, caught in a rainstorm. Splashing in puddles, my hair dripping wet, Josh pulling me in for a kiss, whispering in my ear that he wanted to take me back to his dorm and peel off my clothes and kiss me everywhere else, too.

My chest constricts; suddenly, I’m close to crying.

“Good run. We should do this again sometime,” he says.

It was a good run, but I’m not sure I can handle being around him. I wish I could snap my fingers and be as nonchalant as he is. To him, our relationship is probably ancient history; to me, it’s the wound that never closed over.

Why did you leave me?

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